


Rooted

by applecameron



Series: Rooted [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mal's death, Arthur doesn't cope <i>at all</i> well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rooted

Arthur's rooted to the spot. There's a hole in the ground. If he turns away, it's almost like admitting she's really gone. If he turns and walks out of the cemetery, he'll be leaving her behind. Dom's waiting for him out of the country. They're to meet in three days. Meeting Dom means walking away from Mal, from this place. Walking out of the cemetery on his own two feet. 

But Arthur's rooted to this spot. Rooted to Mal. How can he leave? 

All the other murmurs in his ears are over, finally. The priest. All the others in their black suits, dresses, somber shoes and sad looks. Everyone's gone. It's a relief. 

He wonders for a moment if he could just die here, stand here forever, with Mal's roots piercing him, holding him upright, a statue of Arthur in her grip. That's what he feels like, a statue. Unmoving. Incapable of thought. Of deed. 

Someone approaches, stands near him, alive. He doesn't know who. He can't see them. All he can see is the hole in the ground. All he can feel is Mal's roots, tangled around his legs. Holding him still. Safe, almost. 

The living person is speaking. To Arthur. Held upright by Mal's roots, he can't hear anything. Maybe it's his name. It doesn't matter. Mal's roots have him. 

The living person tugs on him, obscures his view of the hole in the ground, pulls and pushes and holds him for some time he, Arthur statue, is too stupid to measure. The living person forces Arthur's foot to move, then the other, edging his statue away from the hole in the ground. The roots come with him. That's good. He can still feel Mal, feel her roots. It's comforting. He closes his eyes. 

* * *

The living person is Eames. Arthur recognizes his capable hands on the steering wheel of some car. Some somber car. They're both in it. Arthur is in the passenger seat, looking at his feet, at the roots wrapping around him. The roots squeeze his calves, his knees, and he gasps. Eames looks at him but only briefly. Eames is driving. Competently, like always. He's driving the car away from the hole in the ground. 

Arthur needs to go back. To his post. He moves, statue hands clumsy, tugging at the mechanism to get out. Eames says something sharp, moves, hits a button, and something clicks. The door won't open to let him out. 

He needs to go back. He tries again. They're leaving the cemetery. He bangs his elbow. 

Eames says something. Then again, loudly. The car is still taking him away from his post. Away from the hole in the ground. Mal's roots squeeze him again and Arthur hits his statue hand against the door, his statue head against the window. Stone can break glass. He hits it twice more, but the glass is strong. It's not breaking. 

Eames is also strong. Stopping the car, yes, yes, that's good. But, Arthur still can't get out, so he hits more until Eames, strong arms, strong hands, strong body, stops him, pulls him by his clothing away from the door, away from the glass his statue head can't seem to break. Why won't it break? He needs to get out. He needs to go back. Eames' strong arms and hands hold his head still. 

Eames' mouth is moving. He looks very intent. Very stern. Arthur can't hear what he's saying. The side of his head hurts. 

* * *

They're in a room. Arthur is seated on a table, or a bed. A man shines a light in his eyes, but seems pleased when Arthur's stone eyeballs move from right to left and vice versa, following his finger. 

Eames looks relieved, but still very stern. 

The roots around Arthur's legs haven't lessened. They don't squeeze. He can feel them, holding him upright. They're higher up, now. He didn't notice before, but they're at his waist. That's good. Mal's roots aren't leaving him even when he's taken this far away. He can see Eames' lips shape the word _funeral_. And _distraught_. 

The other man, the eye light man, mouths a word that ends in _ussion_. Eames is nodding in reply. Arthur can see words like _every hour_ on his lips. The man's instructing Eames. That's good. Eames is good at doing things. Many things. Even when it's not following instructions. Mal likes him. Mal always liked him. 

Mal's roots cradle Arthur, now. Hips, thighs, joints, feet. The pressure makes him feel safe. 

Eames holds out his hand to Arthur. 

They walk out of a building together. Eames' hand is on Arthur's back, just above the roots. 

He holds the car door open for Arthur, tucks him into his seat like Arthur statues are fragile. Fastens his seatbelt for him. Touches his face, his hair. Mouths words at him but Arthur's attention is taken by the glass. The glass of the window isn't even cracked. Arthur feels something like disappointment, but it doesn't last, too much stone for him to feel for long. 

* * *

Eames turns the car in a direction away from the hole in the ground, as they leave the hospital. 

There's a word in Arthur's mouth. On his stony tongue. It might be _cemetery_. It might be _Mal_. He says it, again and again, hitting and fighting the door, fighting Eames with his stiff statue hands, clumsy and slow. The car is stopped again. 

Eames' voice breaks through as his hands tighten around Arthur's wrists powerfully enough to drown out Mal's roots; this he hears: "I'll take you back. To the cemetery, Arthur. I promise." 

At this the roots squeeze Arthur so hard he can't draw breath. He almost misses what Eames says next, but the roots relax and let him hear it. 

"But if you don't calm down, I'm taking you straight back to that hospital, instead." 

The roots pulse around him. Arthur nods. 

Eames turns the car back to the cemetery. Back to Mal. Arthur weeps with relief. 

* * *

The hole in the ground is gone. Someone filled it in while Arthur was away from his post. He wasn't there when it happened. He should've been there. He feels heat, in his hands, in his face. He failed Mal. 

Mal's roots squeeze him gently. Comfortingly. Mal's not mad. Mal understands. Her roots hold him still and safe. Mal is still, in the ground. He understands. The hole is still there, even filled in. Mal is still there. Mal still loves him. He still loves her. Filling in the hole doesn't change that. 

Eames kept his word. Brought him back to the cemetery. To Mal. He's somewhere behind Arthur's statue, now. Good man. Good friend to Mal, to bring Arthur back to her, so he can take up his post. 

Arthur wonders how long it will take him to turn to stone completely. The roots are at his chest, now. He walks to the foot of the filled-in hole in the ground. Eames is watching him. Arthur can see him from this new position, can see the somber car and Eames leaning against it, lighting a cigarette. Will Eames see the moment it happens? Will Arthur's skin turn to marble? He doesn't know. 

When it happens, it will happen. Then they'll know. 

Arthur stands perfectly still, cradled by Mal's roots. He could stand forever. He will stand forever. 

He stands and stands, watching over Mal, as the sky changes colors and the roots wind their way up and around what's left of Arthur's body. He stands as Eames smokes a pack of cigarettes, gets in and out of the somber car at intervals, stomps his feet. Does he feel Mal's roots, too? Is he stomping Mal's roots? Impossible. Even Eames wouldn't dare such a thing. No, Arthur realizes, he's stomping because he's cold. Because the sky has darkened and it's nighttime. 

Poor flesh, to feel cold like that. Stone is better. 

Suddenly, the uneven ground tips him over and even with the roots holding him, Arthur's falling, not accustomed to the weight of so much stone. He lands on his hip, his elbow, his head. 

"Arthur! _Arthur_!" It's not Mal's voice. It's not the roots. He pays no attention. He's still at his post. He closes his eyes as roots wind about his face and head. 

He's still. He's a statue. 

* * *

When he opens his eyes again, he's on a bed. In a hospital. He's locked in. The roots aren't happy. 

Eames has put him here. This he knows. Arthur feels nothing. Not even betrayal. 

The roots hold him. They're not angry at him, or even Eames. Eames is always doing things, even things he shouldn't. Mal knows what to do to get out. To get free. 

He says things the roots tell him to say, but he doesn't remember what. Cries on command. Takes the pills handed him. Eats at the appointed times, although he's not hungry. Statues don't feel hunger. The people he says things to write notes on pieces of paper, and nod, and eventually, let him go. 

The roots don't let him go. Mal's roots don't let him go. 

The roots don't budge, until he sees Eames again. Even the roots are happy to see Eames, curling and uncurling around Arthur's body, warming him and cooling him as they move. Happy even though Eames is looking at Arthur tired and sad. Arthur wants to tell him to become a statue, too, but if he says that, they might not let him go. He wants Eames to be not sad. Even after this meddlesome work separating Arthur from his post for so many days, so many, Mal's roots like Eames as much as Arthur does. 

So, he stumbles over words shaped like _thank you_ to the people holding him against his will, who've been hacking away with their words and their drugs at his stony mind and body, and escapes. 

* * *

Arthur sits in the passenger seat of the car. It's not the somber car, anymore. It's a little blue car. A Ford. Eames pats his hand after fastening his seatbelt and carefully shuts Arthur in before walking around to the driver's side. There's papers with prescriptions written down on them in Eames' pocket. The roots say he should keep taking the pills, _be good_ for Eames, so that he does what they want. They have escaped from one prison to a different one. One run by Eames. 

As he drives, Eames talks about someone in another country, about two children, uses words like _police_ and _extradition treaty_. Arthur feels a flicker of interest, but his thoughts have too much stone in them, for him to follow Eames' intricacies. 

Eames drives him to a little house and unpacks him from the car like an _objet d'art_ being lifted from a box full of tissue paper. Shows him the place. There's a backyard with trees and bushes and things that have roots. Arthur is relieved. Standing among other things with roots feels right, somehow. 

Eames sits him down on the bed in the _guest bedroom_ and crouches in front of him, explaining this is his room, and his desk. Tells him that Eames hopes he'll sleep in the master bedroom bed with him. But that this is his private space. Tells him Eames will keep track of his pills for him. Admits, with a guilty air, that he took over the dining room as his studio, because it has the best light in the house. Shows him clothes hanging in the guest bedroom closet, and tucked in a dresser, and tells him there are more clothes, in the master bedroom closet, and in another dresser there. Shows him the blank journal for him to write in if he wants to. The paper and charcoal if he wants to draw. Points out the radio and CD player on the shelf, the small selection of CDs. All just for Arthur, for his pleasure and solace. 

Tells him more. Tells him the most important thing: That Eames will take him back to his post, to Mal, if he's good. He doesn't call it Arthur's post, of course. But if he wants to see Mal, he must ask, and Eames will take him. He has to work at getting better, if he wants Eames to agree to take him. Warns him that it is too far a distance to walk. Tells him he will take Arthur in a week, on Sunday, if he keeps _working on getting better_. That's Eames' phrase. Touches his cheek when he says it. 

And Arthur nods his understanding; he feels grateful, really, as much as a statue can feel anything. Grateful that there are rules he can obey that will bring him back to Mal. Grateful Eames understands, understands that it's what he wants as much as what Mal wants. 

Eames cooks food and Arthur eats it, for him, and tells him it tastes good. 

He'll sleep in the master bedroom. It will please Eames. That's good. 

* * *

He wakes up in the middle of the night with a wet face, wrapped up in Eames' arms, shaking. Eames is speaking to him. Something soft. His voice sounds tender. Arthur can't tell what it is. Why his face is wet? Has he been left out in the rain? That must happen to statues, they get rained on. 

Does Eames know? Does he feel the roots, tangled even now around Arthur, holding him still, more tightly than Eames' arms? Can Eames feel him through Mal's roots? Pass him messages? Listen to him speak without moving his mouth? 

There was a question, wasn't there a question? Wetness on his face made of stone. Yes. It takes him moments to makes his mouth move. Meant to ask if it's raining, but instead his mouth traitorously shapes, "am I crying?" 

"Yes. Yes, sweetheart, you are." 

Eames' voice. Eames' arms. The bed even smells like Eames. But it's Mal's roots wrapped around him. He can't tell which is stronger. He can't tell. 

* * *

Arthur complies; he obeys the rules. He goes to the doctor Eames drives him to see, every other morning. The _psychiatrist_. He takes the pills Eames hands him in the morning and at night. He sleeps in the bed with Eames, and compliments his dinners. He looks at the journal and can't write words. But he takes the paper and a pencil out into the back yard and draws trees. Things with roots, sinking down into the earth. It feels good to draw them. Detailed root systems under the ground, connecting everything. 

On Saturday afternoon, the roots want a peanut butter sandwich. Arthur hasn't been hungry since he became a statue. It's kind of nice to feel hunger, and satisfy it. If only every desire could be satisfied so easily. Arthur makes two sandwiches. One for Eames, one for him and the roots. Eames' approving look makes him feel something, in his belly. He doesn't know what. But he knows tomorrow is Sunday. 

At dinner, he feels shy. Arthur didn't know statues could feel shy. He realizes Eames may think he was being nice to him with the sandwich because he wants Eames to take him to Mal. The roots whisper that he is being nice, _being good_ for Eames, for exactly that purpose. But he doesn't want to hurt Eames. Eames hurting makes him feel bad. It even makes the roots feel bad. 

The roots tighten about him all over, not hurting, supporting, so that he can talk, explain, to Eames. 

He asks if Eames will take him to Mal Sunday, and then hurries on to add, "I wasn't bribing you with the sandwich, earlier. Really." 

"I know, pet." Eames takes his hand. "I didn't think that." They eat on stools at the kitchen island, since there's no dining room. 

"I was just hungry." Something's strange about Arthur's skin where Eames touches him. His touch makes it feel like Arthur still has flesh, not stone, for a body. Strange. The roots tighten for a moment, reminding him of their presence. "I thought you might be hungry, too." 

"I was. I believe you, Arthur." 

"Okay." 

"We'll go together tomorrow." 

Arthur feels an entire emotion at that statement. The emotion is _happiness_. 

* * *

Arthur sits in the passenger seat of the little blue Ford, hands flat on his thighs. The roots keep squeezing and releasing him, to the point of discomfort. He has to be careful not to gasp. Not to do anything that will alert Eames, make him fearful of keeping his promise. He doesn't reach for the door handle or anything. He took his pill earlier. He ate breakfast. He didn't wake Eames up just after midnight and demand to go then, even though it was officially Sunday. That's not what someone _working on getting better_ would do. 

Eames takes him after breakfast and lets him stay at his post all day, until he wavers and folds to his knees under the pressure of the roots, squeezing so hard his head buzzes. He lets Arthur stay, kneeling, until Arthur's eyes shut and every part of him stills completely. 

Eames keeps his word, and when Arthur wakes up it's in the car driving back home. Not to the hospital. 

Arthur is so, so, grateful. 

* * *

The next Saturday night, after another week of showing how hard he's _working on getting better_ , Arthur asks again. 

Eames says, "yes". Reminds him, after the utterly thrilled look Arthur can't keep off even his statue face, "I promised, pet." 

Eames puts a small cooler in the back of the car before they leave the next day. "In case I get hungry," at Arthur's inquiring look. Then the laughter on his face subsides, replaced by something more complex, shades of fondness, worry. "In case you get hungry, too." 

Eames sets them off after breakfast, and lives up to his word, leaving Arthur and the roots to their post at the foot of the hole in the ground that's been filled in, Mal's place. Arthur kneels sooner that day. It feels just as right as standing. The roots agree, almost loose around him. 

He stays until his eyes shut of their own accord and he slumps to the side, buzzing and dizzy. This time, he feels and hears Eames approach, lever him up, and half-walk, half-carry, him down to the car. Puts him in the passenger seat like he's made of china instead of stone, and kisses his forehead. 

That night, he puts his arms around Eames and pulls him close, breathing in the scent of him, the heat of him. He can't spread his legs, but he wants to, just a little bit. 

After a third Sunday, featuring Eames approaching Arthur at his post, only to place a sandwich wrapped in paper, and a water bottle, within his reach, Eames asks him a question later: "Is it a vigil?" 

They're in bed, together, and Arthur had pulled Eames to him just like the week before. Part of him wants to open to him, part his legs, feel arousal, satisfy animal desires. But statues don't have animal desires. It's a little confusing. 

Arthur doesn't know how to answer, how to explain what becoming a statue meant. It's his post. He can't tell Eames about the roots, about Mal's roots. It's just…is a post a vigil? 

He shrugs and settles on, "I don't know. I just have to do it." 

* * *

Every day of the week, Arthur does his best to show he's _working on getting better_. Every Sunday, Eames takes him to the only place he wants to go, and watches him intermittently, reading a book in the car, or doing crosswords from a magazine. 

At night, in Eames' arms, Arthur feels more like flesh than ever before. But when he gets confused, the roots get tight, especially across his chest, and he settles back, reminded that's it's temporary. It only happens when Eames touches him. Because he's a statue. His nature is to be still, to be stone, to be silent and watchful. For Mal. 

* * *

One Sunday, Eames touches him lightly on the forearm before Arthur can get out of the car. "Arthur, would you mind if I…visited Mal's grave alone for a few minutes first?" 

The request floors him. _Mal's grave_. That's what he calls it. Arthur nods, not trusting speech, then turns over this development as Eames gets out of the car, taking the cooler with him, something else tucked under his arm. _Mal's grave_. Arthur has never called it that in his head. It's the hole in the ground, where the roots come from. Mal's roots. But to Eames, it's a _grave_. It's a _grave_. For the _dead_. To the world, it's _Mal's grave_. It's her _grave_ , because she's _dead_. 

When Eames comes back and Arthur gets out of the car, shaking, he has never felt more fleshy and more numb at the same time. He strides up, roots tight around his chest, so tight he nearly can't breathe. Eames doesn't make eye contact with him as they pass. Arthur can hear him clamber back into the car, and he's glad of it when he's seen what the man's done, because a cry escapes him at the sight, and he doesn't want Eames to have heard it. 

Eames has set a picnic, for him and Mal. There is a pretty green napkin with a plate on it, and an unwrapped sandwich, in two pieces, resting on the mound of _her grave_ ; it's clearly Mal's. He can see the pate of one piece, and cucumber in the other. There is a matching napkin, at the foot of the _grave_ , but not on it, more off to the side, not where Eames has watched Arthur standing and kneeling, but within reach of the position. There is a plate, and a sandwich still wrapped, no doubt the other halves of pate and cucumber and farmer's cheese, and a bottle of water alongside, and it is all so clearly Arthur's that the roots around his chest tighten so completely he can't breathe at all, just goes to his knees, puts his forehead to the ground at the foot of _Mal's grave_ , and cries until there are no more tears left in his body. 

The roots hold him tight as he cries, and slowly loosen until he can sit up. He doesn't know how long has passed. Eames has parked the car in a different spot. He's not in Arthur's view, like he usually is. 

Arthur's glad. This is just for him and Mal. He puts his ear to the ground, listening for her heartbeat. 

Nothing. He tries his other ear. Nothing. 

The roots have almost completely withdrawn, as if they're not sure what to do anymore. 

"Come back," he whispers to them. "Come back." Forehead down, he takes a deep breath, smelling dirt, and sandwiches, and the plastic of the water bottle, and his own sweat and tears, the scent of his grief. 

There's no answer. 

After a while, Arthur kneels back up, and drinks the water. Slowly, mindfully, he collects the sandwiches and napkins into neat bundles, and carries them down to the car, which is only a little ways back from its usual spot. Eames sees him coming, gets out of the little blue car, leaving the door open. 

Arthur hands him the plates and bundles, and leans over and hits the button that opens the trunk. Reclaims it all, lets Eames trail behind him as he figures out where the plates had been stored so they wouldn't be jarred. It's a cardboard box with padding in it. He tucks them away neatly. 

The sandwiches in their napkins go back into the cooler. 

He motions for Eames to keep his hands clear and then shuts the trunk, firmly, looking down at his hands where they rest against metal. Flesh. Not stone. 

"Let's go." 

"Okay." 

He gets in the car, thinking, maybe, tonight, with the lights out, he can tell Eames what it's like becoming a statue, rootbound, and then turning to flesh again. 


End file.
